


Hunter and the Alleyboy

by objectlesson



Category: AFI, Justin Timberlake - Fandom
Genre: Alley Sex, M/M, Prostitution, Sex Work, hustin burganlake
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-18
Updated: 2014-12-18
Packaged: 2018-03-01 23:56:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2792324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/objectlesson/pseuds/objectlesson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hunter meets a 'stranger' in a West Hollywood alley</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hunter and the Alleyboy

**Author's Note:**

> wrote this a few months ago, and forgot about it until kind of recently.I don't remember what my inspiration or thought process was in regards to writing it, but I do know I love finding ingenious ways for these guys to meet and suck each other off. I also love the idea of Justin as a big closet homo who cruises West Hollywood alleyways.

Hunter was leaning against a wall outside Mickey’s on Santa Monica Blvd. It was twelve thirty on a Saturday night, and he was enjoying the first bearable cool hour of the day, because nights in LA didn’t get cool enough to stand sweatlessly in until witching hour. There was a breeze, which was unusual, but Hunter figured they were close enough to the ocean it wasn’t too unusual.

Davey was inside, undoubtedly choosing between the three guys he’d been leading on all night. Hunter wondered which one he’d take home. Or if he could persuade two or all of them that they should have an orgy. Davey could sometimes do this. He had gay magic about him. 

Hunter, however, did not have gay magic about him. He had good looks and a charming smile, and that sometimes got him laid. But he apparently exuded heterosexuality, so whenever he went to gay clubs with Davey, it didn’t matter what he said or how sexy he was or how very, very charming his smile might be, drunk dudes would totter towards him, appletinis in their hand, and say stuff like, “You are sooo cuuute, it’s too bad you have a girlfriend.” 

Which was absurd, because Hunter didn’t have a girlfriend. Or an anyfriend. Granted, he didn’t _want_ to fuck the majority of the guys who frequented these clubs, but still. It was weird to be erased off the sexual map because of some weird energy he was putting out into the air. He could go home with girls whenever he wanted. He had straight magic about him, maybe. But guys were another story. 

This worked out because nine times out of ten, Hunter would prefer to bring a girl home, if he wanted to bring anyone home. But still. It was nice to be hit on, after all, he was human and had a penis and penises felt good encased in wet warmth, whether it be a mouth or an ass or something else, and he had enjoyably fucked around with enough guys that he couldn’t consider himself heterosexual, so it was weird all these guys did. He shrugged, sipping the root beer he’d gotten on the house, because apparently he was cute enough for bartenders to give him free sodas, but not cute enough for dudes to try and take home. 

It was probably because of the way he danced. He didn’t dance like a gay guy. Davey didn’t either, Davey danced like nothing Hunter had ever seen before (and he didn’t mean that in a complimentary fashion, Davey like something was seriously wrong with him,) but he supposed that was where Davey’s gay magic came in. Hunter was contemplating the utterly not gay way in which he danced and how it prevented him from potential gay lays, when some buff tall jock walked up to him. He looked distantly familiar, so Hunter tried to meet his eyes, tried to place his face, his name. 

“Hey,” the guy said awkwardly. 

“Hey there,” Hunter said back, not awkwardly, because Hunter was not an awkward person. “Have we met before?” He held out a hand, pushing himself off the wall, which was still reverberating with bad club music. 

The jock guy took his hand, and laughed. “You’re awfully polite. I suppose that’s in the job description.” 

“The job? Oh yeah. Hanging outside of clubs. Definitely my side occupation,” Hunter joked, and the guy laughed an easy, bursting laugh, his white teeth flashing. He was a solid ten by most standards, for sure. The pads of Hunter’s fingers slid against the loose skin over jock-guy’s knuckles. He felt like it was a handshake that took longer than necessary. Jock-guys brown eyes lingered on him, and the night ceased feeling so cool. 

“I’ve never done this before,” the guy admitted, releasing Hunter’s hand suddenly and raking his own through his hair, mussing its perviously neat, gelled-ness. Hunter smiled his charming smile, because this guy was cute, and he was hitting on him. 

“That’s fine. Most people say that,” he joked, shoving his hands in the pocket of his skinny jeans. “You seem like you know what you’re doing, though.” 

He heard himself say this, like he didn’t mean to. Except he most definitely did. Flirting with guys seemed weird coming out of his mouth, though, all the sexual experiences he’d had with other men occurred in very controlled, predicted environments. Davey was usually there, facilitating in some way, setting them up or acting as a third party who never touched Hunter because they were bros and that was weird, or something. But this was out in the wild. Natural habitat. Hunter felt removed from his element. 

“Well, thank you,” Jock guy said, grinning, and hence proving that at least Hunter wasn’t the one _most_ out of his element. It seemed like this dude’s first night out on Santa Monica Blvd. 

Hunter was about to start up a real conversation, say something predictable like _So what’s your name? or the weather is surprisingly nice tonight,_ but before he had the opportunity, jock guy said, “So, where do you want to do this?” 

Hunter swallowed, taken aback, not sure what this guy meant. He had a pretty good idea, but _come on._ He thought that was only folklore about gay guys, that they just propositioned each other in the streets without giving names. He didn’t think that was real life. 

But if he had the opportunity to exist in a trashy, real-life not-real-life porno, he was going to do it. Plus, this guy was male model hot. Celebrity hot. Multi-Platinum Popstar hot. “Uh...do you have a car?” Hunter threw out there, dick stirring to life in anticipation, hands beginning to sweat. 

Jock Guys eyes lit up, and he looked even more irritatingly familiar. Hunter wondered briefly if he was an AFI fan, and if that was a deterrent on whether or not he should have dirty carsex with him, and he decided it wasn’t so he stopped thinking about it. “I do have a car, but it’s a ways away. We can walk, or, uh, there’s an alley way right up there if you want. It’s closer,” Eager Jock guy suggested. 

 

Hunter’s eyes widened. _Alley sex?_ A male model just walked up to him in the middle of the fucking sidewalk and asked him if he wanted to have _gay sex in an alley_. Hunter hadn’t had alley sex in like, ten years. He had half a hard-on already just thinking about it. “Well damn. Okay. Let’s go.” 

Once they were tucked away in the alley, out of sight and next to a dumpster that didn’t smell so therefore wasn’t offensive, the jock guy (who was considerable taller than Hunter) pushed him up against the wall, hands roving across his body with uncertainty too weak to mask want. “Can I kiss you?” he panted, lips close enough to Hunter’s that he could feel his minty breath, warm and damp, huffing between them.

“Fuck yeah,” Hunter laughed, putting a hand behind the guy’s neck and pulling him in. He licked into his mouth, flicking their tongues together and sucking on his lips, which were plush and a perfect mouthful. Hunter experimentally pulled one of these lips between his teeth and bit down, not hard enough to hurt but definitely hard enough to feel. The guy groaned, and his fists tightened on Hunter’s shoulders.

“Ah, god, you’re like, really fucking hot,” Jock guy said as he pulled away, pressing wet, rough kisses into the stubble of Hunter’s jaw. 

“People tell me that a lot,” Hunter joked, but Jock guy didn’t seem to think it was a joke. 

“I bet they do,” he said, a hand’s sliding down tight and huge on either side of Hunter’s ribcage, eyes terrifying with darkness. “I want to suck your cock,” he said in a husky, hoarse voice. “If that’s okay.” 

Hunter could not imagine a universe in which getting his cock sucked by random hot guys in random alley ways was not okay. “Definitely okay.” His voice was shaking, his dick straining against the seam of his pants painfully. Jock guy’s hand moved lower, eyes dazed as he palmed Hunter’s erection through black denim, hissing air through his teeth. “Okay. Hold on.” 

The jock guy sunk to the knees of his expensive pants, mouth watering and eyes fixed on Hunter’s zipper. 

Hunter could not believe how lucky he was. There was an incredibly hot dude about to suck his dick in public. _In an alley_. He must have absorbed some of Davey’s gay magic when they were dancing earlier that night or something. Because this certainly was not what he had in mind for this evening. 

The night felt cold against the fire of his skin, but he wasn’t exposed to the air long enough for it to register, because almost immediately after freeing Hunter’s dick, the guy between his thighs kissed the head of it, swirling his tongue hungrily, mouth rumbling with a groan. And then he slid down, sucking Hunter into his mouth. 

“Fuck. You’re good at that,” Hunter gasped, buckling a little at his knees and trying not to choke this guy with the insistent little snaps of his hips he couldn’t control. He combed his hands through his hair, palming the back of his skull. It felt fantastic.

The guy flicked his eyes up to Hunter, then closed them like he was moved, a half-moon of dark lashes shadowing his cheek. Then, with a pang of something like overwhelm cutting through him, it hit Hunter why this guy looked familiar. _He was Justin Timberlake._ Former boybander. Mickey Mouse Club. Singer of Rock Your Body. SNL. Justified. Future sex. Love sounds. 

“Oh my god,” Hunter blurted, but that was a normal thing to say during sex so Justin kept on sucking his dick. It was really a fucking incredible blowjob, and Hunter’s hips were working against Justin’s face, his flesh sliding out of wet heat and back into it again, the wet heat of _Justin Timberlake’s mouth_. Justin sighed. It sounded like something his voice did on his albums. 

“Fuck yeah,” Hunter said, feeling like a pimp. 

Justin moaned, his hands making fists in Hunter’s sweaty shirt before one wrapped around the base of Hunter’s cock, his lips still plush and warm at the tip. “I could do this forever. How much time do you have?” he mumbled, eyes half lidded. 

“As much time as you want to keep doing that,” Hunter admitted, carding his fingers through gelled hair, thumb hooking in the corner of Justin’s mouth. “Just, remember we’re in public.” 

“Trust me, I know,” Justin chuckled, swirling his tongue around the head, then lapping at the slit. He kept looking like he was in pain, because people look like they’re in pain when they’re doing something they really like. 

Hunter let his head fall back against cement wall, let his hips pump and roll and spasm. It felt filthy, this silence between them about their names, their professions, the things they were hiding. But it also felt hot. Hunter cupped the back of Justin’s head, held him in place while he thrusted with increasingly erratic thrusts, fucking his mouth hard, gagging him with cock. Justin was totally fucking into it. He let his mouth be fucked open and raw and tender at the corners. “You keep letting me fuck your face like that, I’m not gonna last very long.” 

Justin pulled off for a second, heaving breaths and drool on his chin, eyes glazed over with delirum as he swallowed and coughed weakly. “I want to taste your come,” His voice scraped. He was jacking Hunter off while he kissed up his happy trail, in the hollow created by the jut of a hipbone. “want you to come in my mouth.” 

“Fuck,” Hunter groaned, dragging Justin’s pink, abused mouth back onto his dick. Usually Hunter kind of held back when receiving head, most people didn’t like having their faces fucked with as much vigor as Hunter was capable of fucking one’s face with. Judging by the increasing depth of the furrows in Justin’s brow, however, and the increasing tightness with which he was gripping Hunter’s waist, he _liked_ having his face fucked at the full capacity. He _loved_ it. 

Between the face-fucking and the maddeningly intense friction and and saliva and the fact that it was _Justin Timberlake_ sucking him off in _an alley_ , Hunter lost his ability to function as a human being, and simultaneously shot his load in Justin’s mouth, and half-collapsed, hands on broad shoulders and waist bent in half. “Fuck,” he mumbled, lips in hair that smelled like very expensive hair product and salon quality conditioner. He hauled Justin to his feet, pressed their bodies together, and kissed him. 

“Fuck,” he mumbled again, thrilled by the huge, ecstatic grin on Justin’s face when they broke apart. “You are something else.” 

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Justin said, panting. “Because I bet you get a lot of blowjobs from a lot of different guys.” 

“Eh, a few,” Hunter laughed. He pulled Justin to him again, kissed him rough, with tongue, sweeping the ridges on the roof of his mouth, his teeth. 

“So,” Justin said breathlessly after their lips were both swollen from making out, backs sore from being shoved against walls. “How much do I owe you?” 

Hunter looked quizzically at him. “What?” 

Justin blinked. “How much?” 

Hunter realized that he was actually in a porno, because this shit didn’t happen in real life. Real people did not get stopped in the sidewalk by Justin Timberlake,or mistaken as prostitutes. Real People did not stumble upon opportunities to make serious cash just from getting sucked off. For a second, Hunter contemplated how much he would be worth, if he was a prostitute. But he wasn’t, so instead of throwing out a price, he shook his head. “Uh, free?” 

Justin narrowed his eyes at him. “This isn’t because...” 

“Because you’re Justin Timberlake? No. It’s because I’m not a hustler.” 

“Oh,” Justin said, cough-laughing, cheeks darkening to a dusky red. His hands opened on closed on Hunter’s chest, and he wavered in front of him, smelling fresh but sex-unclean like sweat and cologne. He looked like he was debating whether or not this changed anything, or if there was something to say. Hunter kissed him, quick, before he could apologize or freak out or something. 

“Um, here...” Hunter fumbled in his back pocket, pulled out a receipt. “Do you have a pen?” 

Justin materialized a pen out of his own back pocket, a fancy, miniature silver desk pen. Hunter used it to jot down his number. “I’m not an escort or anything, but I give pretty good head, too. And I’m discreet. Also have a career in the music industry that I’d like to keep separate from whatever I do in West Hollywood allies.” He handed the receipt to Justin, who took it, beaming at the name and the digits for a moment. 

“Thanks, Hunter.”  
“No, thank you.” 

Justin Timberlake retreated into the night, and Hunter tucked his spent, spit-wet dick back into his jeans, feeling like he was made out of gay magic.


End file.
